by Mark Morris
"Yeah, I know, nman, it's just... aw, fuck," Max said and climbed onto the windowsill.
Steve never saw him jump. He was preoccupied with the creatures flowing up the corridor towards him, filling it from side to side. It was impossible to tell how many there were. Trying to focus on them for too long hurt his eyes.
He had left his torch and gun on the desk to avoid having to juggle too many items at once. Trying to stop his hands from shaking, he lit the taper of cloth drooping from the neck of the bottle and hurled it at the wall a couple of feet in front of the advancing aliens.
It shattered, dousing the creatures in liquid fire. As one they shrank back, shriveling into themselves. Clots of flaming petrol landed on the carpet and began to burn merrily. For maybe half a second Steve considered lighting another bomb, then decided he had bought himself as much time as he could reasonably expect. He turned back into the room and ran to the window, snatching up his torch and gun as he passed. Flurries of wind and rain were blowing in through the jagged-edged hole, making the curtains billow and flap. Steve shone his torch into the darkness. Shit, Max had been right. It was a long drop.
He picked out Max, lying on the damp grass a little way up the banking. He was on his back, his rucksack on the ground to his left, his gun within reach of his right hand. He didn't seen interested in picking it up, however. His face was creased in agony.
"You okay?" Steve shouted.
"Fucked my leg." Max's voice was high and breathy, almost a scream.
Steve redirected his torch and his stomach turned over. Though the light was diffused, he could see the teenager's left leg below the knee was soaked in blood. And tearing a hole in his combats was what appeared to be a sharp white stick, but was almost certainly a bone.
Compound fracture, Steve thought. Oh fuck, oh fuck. What chance did Max have now? What chance did either of then have? Because he sure as hell wasn't leaving the poor kid on his own.
"I'm coming down!" he shouted, and before he could dwell on Max's injury any longer he climbed onto the sill and jumped. He felt a moment of exhilarating terror as the ground rushed at him. Then he hit the banking and tried not to brace his legs as Max must have done, tried to let them crumple beneath him, carry his momentum into a sideways roll.
He overcompensated slightly and felt himself tumbling head over heels down the hill, the bottles clashing and sloshing in his rucksack, a hard edge of glass occasionally slamming into the muscles of his back or whacking into his spine, though thankfully-as far as he could tell-not breaking.
He dug heels and elbows into the ground, trying to slow himself down, terrified that if he carried on he would smash into the castle wall below and end up with his brains spattered all over the ancient stonework. At last he managed it and slithered to a halt, bruised and battered, but more or less intact.
Dazed, he rose to his feet and staggered back up the banking. He was not only grimy with sweat and ash now, but also caked with mud. Max's breathing was loud and fast, and in the light from Steve's torch, which (unlike Max's) had mercifully survived its impact with the ground, Steve saw the boy's hands opening and closing, his fingers digging deep into the soft earth.
"Hey, mate," he said softly, dropping to his knees on the grassy slope beside Max, "how you doing?"
"Not good," Max said. His face was drenched with sweat, and there was a grayish tinge to his dark skin.
Steve looked around. They were in the shadow of the castle. The top of the slope was still a dozen feet above them. It was not a good position as far as potential rescue was concerned.
"We've got to get onto flat ground, otherwise the helicopter won't see us to pick us up. Which means I'm going to have to carry you or drag you. Okay?"
Max's eyes were rolling. "Just leave me, man," he gasped.
"Yeah, like that's gonna happen. If I leave you, I'll feel a shit for the rest of my life and I'm sure you wouldn't want that on your conscience."
Max tried to smile, but managed no more than a grimace. "No way," he muttered. "Your happiness is important to Inc."
Steve patted his cheek. Though Max's skin was boiling hot, the boy was beginning to shiver. As carefully as he could, Steve slid his right arum under Max's legs, his left around Max's waist. "Okay, big feller, here goes. I'm afraid this is probably going to hurt a bit. Can you put your arum over my shoulders?"
Max did so.
Steve counted to three, then lifted. Max's grip on his shoulder suddenly became so tight that Steve knew he'd have bruises there the next morning-if he lived that long. Max didn't quite faint, but his eyes rolled back in his head and he made an awful, almost animal-like moaning sound.
"Hang on in there," Steve muttered, feeling a little faint himself as Max's splintered tibia thrust farther up through the material of his trousers. He carried Max up the banking, only managing to avoid dropping him through willpower alone. At last, however, they were at the top of the slope, on what might once have been a sports field. Steve walked maybe another thirty yards, then sank to his knees, lowering Max gently to the muddy ground.
Max was only semiconscious now, muttering incoherently. His eyelids fluttered as if he were desperately trying to remain conscious. Steve felt like lying on the cool grass himself. How nice it would be to close his eyes and drift off. Just for five minutes. But of course he couldn't. Very faintly he heard the unmistakable fizzing sound of the aliens. They were out there somewhere, in the darkness. He wondered whether they were aware of himself and Max. He wondered how they hunted, what senses they employed to pinpoint their prey. Could they see the light of his torch? Smell Max's blood? Detect the vibration of their movements? There was so much he didn't know about them, so much that mankind had to learn, to understand-not that it was likely they would ever get the opportunity to do so.
"I'm just going for the gear. Back in two ticks," he said to Max, and ran back across the grass in a half crouch, shining his torch ahead of him. The fizzing seemed to be coming from all around him, though as yet there were still no aliens in sight.
As he gathered up the rucksacks and Max's gun he decided that if worst came to worst he would put a bullet through Max's head and then his own. Better that than to be gobbled up alive by the intergalactic equivalent of a great white shark.
For one jolting moment when he got back, Steve thought that Max was already dead. The teenager was motionless, his eyes half-open, a crust of dried foam on his lips....
Then he jerked, and swallowed whatever was in his throat with a gulp, and-though he knew how ludicrous it was under the circumstances-Steve felt a surge of relief. Deciding that the only remotely useful thing to do was prepare their meager defenses as best he could, he squatted beside Max and opened the teenager's rucksack.
"Shit," he muttered, shining his torch onto the heap of shattered glass sloshing around in several inches of petrol. He lifted the rucksack up. He hadn't noticed before, but petrol was leaking out through the bottom in a steady trickle. He looked at the escaping liquid in despair-and then he had an idea. He grabbed a bottle (all but one of which were still remarkably intact) from his own rucksack, pulled the material plug from the neck and lifted Max's rucksack again, holding his bottle underneath, so that the escaping petrol trickled into it.
Taking a quick look round, he ran across the grass until he was twenty yards from where Max was lying. Only then did he remove the bottle from beneath the stream of petrol, allowing the liquid to trickle freely He began to walk around Max in a wide circle, drizzling petrol as he went. Eventually the stream from the rucksack slowed, turned to drips and then dwindled to nothing. Steve gave the rucksack a final shake-scattering the last drops of fuel and jangling the slurry of broken glass inside-and dumped it on the ground. He continued walking in a circle, now pouring petrol from the bottle. When that too was empty, he ran back across to his own rucksack and grabbed two more. Five minutes later all the petrol he and Max possessed had been poured onto the grass.
Dropping the last bottle on the ground, St
eve took his torch and gun from his jacket. He shone his torch around, trying to locate the source of the faint crackling. Was it his imagination or could he see blue-white glints concealed within the silvery veils of rain? He had the impression the creatures were massing out there in the blackness, just out of range of his torch beam. He shivered, and pushed grimy clumps of hair out of his eyes. Standing beside Max's deflated rucksack, he wondered whether pouring the last of their petrol on the ground had been such a good idea. Maybe the fuel would evaporate, or soak into the earth, or become so diluted that it would not catch fire. Or maybe it would only burn for a moment, then peter out.
The fizzing was getting louder now, and seemed to be coming from somewhere over to his left. Was something moving out there, a bulk blacker than the screen of trees on the perimeter of the playing fields? He dropped his gun back into his jacket pocket and fumbled for his matches. He felt sick with anticipation, exposed out here in the open.
All at once he smelled smoke and turned to look behind him. The castle was on fire, yellow-white forks of flame rising from some unspecified area towards the rear of the structure, stabbing at the night. He thought of the petrol bomb he had thrown in the corridor leading to the head teacher's office. Surely it hadn't caught so quickly? Then he thought of Libby and Abby, and remembered that they had petrol bombs too. The prospect that they had been forced to use them made his stomach clench.
As though agitated by the drifting smoke, the fizzing took on a more urgent tone. Steve turned back to face the rain-flecked darkness-and suddenly he could see them, the aliens, the slugs, moving forward in a wave, shedding light that was simultaneously an absence of light, cloaked in a wave of energy that was impossible to ignore and equally impossible to focus upon.
Trying to stay calm, he lit a match, hoping the rain wouldn't douse it. As a bud of flame appeared, he glanced once more at the mass of energy bearing down on him (and received a fleeting image of jagged and overlapping black shapes moving like loose scales or a mass of pecking beaks); then he stepped back, stretched out his arm and dropped the match.
It hit the rucksack and tumbled down its side to land on the grass below. Though it remained alight, nothing happened, and for a moment Steve felt a wave not so much of despair but of regret, of shame even for not having provided his injured friend with better protection. He glanced back at Max, as if to apologize for his failure-and the rucksack soundlessly bloomed with flame. So quickly that Steve registered it as no more than an impression, the fire ignited the petrol and spread outwards in both directions, burning first with a delicate blue flame, and then with a fiercer white one.
Steve walked back a few steps, then turned and jogged over to Max. Despite the wet grass, he sat cross-legged beside the unconscious teenager, trying not to look at the spike of white bone protruding from the tear in his blood-soaked combats. The ring of fire burned around them, feeding first on the fuel, then the grass and earth beneath. The ring maintained its integrity for perhaps a minute, and then-to Steve's horrorthe flames began to die. Steve saw breaks appearing in the circle, saw licks of fire fizzling out, leaving nothing but patches of scorched earth and curls of oily black smoke.
"This is it, Max," he murmured as the fizzing of the encircling aliens reached a new pitch. He tightened his grip on his gun and waited for the end.
Portia had almost fallen twice-unable to match the longer strides of Abby, whose hand she was clutching-and had had to be literally yanked back to her feet. Because of this, the aliens were still close behind them, no more than half the length of a corridor away. It might have been her imagination, but Abby thought that the fizzing sound they were making was hungrier, more eager than ever.
As if being chased by monsters wasn't stressful enough, Abby felt it her responsibility to ensure the three of them kept going in the right direction. It was her school, after all, but though she knew its layout pretty well, she had never run through its corridors at night, and certainly never in fear of her life. The place looked different in the dark, particularly as their torch beans made the walls sway and lurch like the inside of a funhouse. Trying to stay focused, she blurted instructions as they ran, knowing that if she made a mistake and they ended up running into a dead end, then that would be it. Game over.
When they rounded a corner into the Whispering Walk, therefore, and she saw the door in the curved wall at the end, she felt like sobbing with relief. Instead she yelled, "There it is!" and taking a renewed grip on Portia's hand, she put on a last burst of speed.
It was Libby, however, who reached the door first. Wrapping both hands around the brass doorknob, she clenched her teeth and gave it a twist. Nothing happened, and for a bonefreezing second Abby thought the door was lockedeven though it was supposed to be kept unlocked, for such an eventuality as this. Panic leaped into Libby's eyes, and she twisted harder-and suddenly, with a grinding chunk, the door swung open.
They filed through the gap, Abby tugging Portia behind her. She resisted looking over her shoulder, even though the crackling now seemed to be almost upon them. The immediate thing that struck her about the inside of the tower was how cold it was. Icy air swirled up the stairs, drying the sweat on Abby's body, making her shiver. She followed the beam of her torch onto the stone steps as Libby pulled the door shut with a boom, muffling the sounds of pursuit.
They pounded up the stairs, their feet slapping the worn steps. Abby's torchlight slid around the curved wall, rippling over the stone like a wave over shingle. Though the top of the tower was spacious enough to accommodate the helicopter, its walls were thick, which meant that the spiral stairs were tight and narrow. For this reason the three of them could see no farther than seven or eight steps ahead. Their echoing footsteps and amplified breath made it sound as though the tower was full of people. They had climbed no more than twenty steps when the fizzing of the aliens suddenly increased in volume, seeming to fill the air with static.
"They're in," Libby wailed, as if she had believed the door might have proved an effective barrier against them.
"Come on," Abby said, her voice booming, "we're almost there."
She only hoped, now that they had got this far, that Adam would be there too. If he wasn't they would be trapped on the roof with nowhere to go. What would they do then? Fight back until they had used up their bullets and petrol bombs, she supposed. She didn't want to consider what might happen beyond that.
Rounding the curve and seeing the little girl sitting half a dozen steps above her brought Abby up with a jolt. Her torch bean jerked across the girl's hunched figure and stricken face. The girl gave a squeal of terror, scrunched up her eyes and buried her face in her hands.
"Marcie!" Libby blurted, pushing past Abby and Portia and climbing a step closer to the girl.
Portia spoke for the first time since Libby and Moira had burst into the girls' dormitory. "That's not Marcie," she said, her voice low and fierce.
Libby glanced at her uncertainly Below them the fizzing was getting louder. "How can you be sure?"
"Marcie's dead. That's one of those things, pretending to be her," Portia said.
Libby grabbed Portia's arm. Portia looked at Libby's hand encircling her wrist as if it were a curious bracelet.
"But did you see Marcie change?" she said. "Did you actually see it?" Her eyes flickered upwards, to Abby's face. "Did you?"
"No," Abby said. Portia shook her head dumbly, but she continued to glare at the girl on the stairs.
"But that's just it, isn't it? We can't be sure. How do we know Marcie didn't wake up, see what was happening to Victoria and simply run away?"
"She didn't," said Portia.
"But we can't be sure, can we? And for that reason we can't leave her behind."
The fizzing was reverberating all around them now. Any second Abby expected to see the flickering, jagged shape of an alien appearing around the curve behind them. Her gut instinct was to agree with Portia-she didn't think this was the real Marcie-but on the other hand, she understo
od Libby's dilemmnma. Because what if, against the odds, this was Marcie? What if Marcie had fled from the dormitory before Abby had got there, and what if she had worked her way through the castle to this point? And what if it was the echoing sound of their footsteps, or even the fizzing of the aliens, that had frozen the little girl in place, made her too terrified to climb any farther?
The fizzing was close behind them now Abby couldn't think of anything else to do except take the risk and allow Marcie to accompany them. "Okay, bring her," she said to Libby, but just then Portia turned and pressed herself against Abby as if wanting a hug. Abby frowned. She understood Portia's need for reassurance, but there wasn't time for this now. And then Portia turned with the gun she had taken from Abby's jacket and she shot Marcie in the chest.
The bullet slammed into the little girl and flung her backwards. Her arms flew up and her chest erupted, blood splashing on the steps as she bounced back from the wall and crumpled forwards like a broken doll. She landed on the steps face-first, then slithered down several, leaving a trail of blood behind her. Libby looked down at the body for a second, then turned to Portia, her eyes and mouth stretched into such an expression of horror that it made her look ugly.
"What have you done?" she breathed. Her voice became shrill and chalky. "What have yon done?"
Portia's face was composed. She handed the gun back to Abby, who took it dumbly.
"It wasn't her," she said.
There was fury in Libby's voice. "How do you know?"
"She's fully dressed," said Portia.
It took a moment for Abby to register the comment-and then she realized that what Portia had said was true. Marcie was wearing a sweater and a ski jacket, jeans, trainers, even socks. But if she had fled in terror she would have been wearing pajamas or a night shirt, and her feet would almost certainly have been bare.
"She's right!" she shouted, giving Libby a nudge. "Go on, get going!"
Libby looked bewildered, but she did as Abby said, delicately but swiftly stepping over the sprawled body of the dead girl, avoiding the streaks and splashes of blood. Portia pounded up behind her, and Abby, now clutching her gun instead of Portia's hand, brought up the rear-though this time not before taking a quick peek behind her.
